Opening Day at Fenway. It has a certain ring to it, I think, and always has ever since I moved to Massachusetts 36 years ago and became a faithful member of Red Sox Nation.

I’ve never been there on Opening Day. But my grandson Jack will be there today, heading in to the iconic ball park with his cousins Cooper and Camden and their dad, Jack’s Uncle Bobby.

He was more than excited when he got the news yesterday. But there was a little concern, at first at least, about dismissing the boys from school early for the big event.

Do it, I encouraged. They’ll never forget it, and it’s the last day of school before April vacation. How much work will they really miss?

The discussion carried me back a half century ago to a cold spring day in 1962. I was a senior in high school. I’d been accepted to college. All was right with the world, especially since the astronauts were coming to New York City for a ticker tape parade.

These were the original Mercury Seven space men – John Glenn, who’d just orbited the Earth, Alan Shepard, Gus Grissom, Deke Slayton and the rest.

It was a no-brainer to my friends and me. We were going in to the city to watch our national heroes in person being deluged in ticker tape, one of the most iconic events that New York City throws to honor heroes and celebrities.

So we cut school —  but it wasn’t a sneaky cut. We told our parents and they gave us the OK. Go on, have fun, enjoy yourselves, it’s a day to remember and celebrate, they said.

So we did. We took the ferry into the city, bought steaming cups of coffee to warm us from the biting cold and joined thousands in a cheering throng that lined the streets. I bought a pennant with the astronauts’ names and a newspaper with Glenn’s and the others’ pictures filling the entire front page, items I still have in my high school yearbook.

It was a day to remember, for sure, and we got to cheer our heroes and see them up close as they rode by in open air convertibles, waving to the crowds.

It was history in the making and we were awash in the thrill of the moment.

But Mr. Samsel didn’t see it that way. The next day he called us to his office, and, as the assistant principal responsible for discipline told us we would be given zeroes for the day and have to serve detention for a week.

My father would have none of it and that night wrote a letter in our defense, pointing out that we’d had permission, the event was historic, and surely in the years to come, we would remember seeing the astronauts much more than any algebra problem or French lesson we had missed in school that day.

I don’t recall the outcome. Mr. Samsel may have erased the zeroes from our records and dismissed us from detention hall duty. Or he may have not. But it doesn’t matter. I graduated, went to college, did well, and, as Dad pointed out, still remember that special day when I saw the astronauts in person far more than a single day’s lessons in the classrooms.

That will be true for Jack and his cousins today, too, I am sure – even if the Red Sox lose.

“What were the olden days like, Grandma and Grandpa?”
It was my favorite question, queried constantly to my beloved grandparents as I grew up in the ’40s and ’50s. They talked of riding streetcars, living in turn of the century (that’s the 19th into the 20th-century) New York and moving to the suburbs – East Orange, N.J. — from the wilds of Brooklyn when my dad was a child in the early part of the 20th century.
Now the tables are turned, and I’m the grandparent, being queried on the “olden days” by my beloved grandson, Jack, who’s 7 1/2. It’s a Q & A project for his second grade class study on “Acton Long Ago.”
I didn’t grow up in Acton, but my answers are probably like a lot of other grandparents, who grew up in my time and are being interviewed for this project.
Back in our “olden days” of the ’40s and ’50s, we played jump rope, hopscotch and kickball. Girls loved playing with dolls and paper dolls and being with friends. Boys loved playing sports and being with friends. We walked to school and came home for lunch. And our TVs — if we had a TV — were tiny and black and white with two or three channels, not hundreds of cable options like we have today.
Computers were far away in some science fiction future we only read about or imagined in comic strips or movies.
But we were still lucky kids, especially when we had grandparents who loved — no adored — us.
And that hasn’t changed in 60, 600 or 6000 years. Grandparents love doting on their grandkids, cherishing them and offering a listening ear without judgement or condemnation.
My grandparents did it for me and my sisters. And I do that now for Jack, Molly and Claire.
How would Grandma and Grandpa Davies react to these three little miracles — their great-great grandchildren and my perfect grands?
I think, first of all, that they’d laugh a bit when they realized their granddaughter is now a grandmother herself. How could that happen, they’d think, recalling my rebellious teen years when they always stood by?
Then, they’d marvel at how funny and smart kids are today — especially Jack, Molly and Claire. And while they wouldn’t be able to fathom computers, the Internet, iPads or remotes, they’d marvel at how far the world has come.
But they’d still take delight that, despite push buttons and multimedia electronics, kids still play dolls, jump rope and play hopscotch and kickball, keeping the “olden days” alive — at least for this generation.

It’s the end of July, which means one thing around here – the Lowell Folk Festival.

It’s been that way for 25 years, a great record, for sure, for one of the region’s premier events. And it’s free and always will be, organizers pledge.

I was working at the Sun 25 years ago, and no one paid much heed to the first Festival, brought here by the National Council for Traditional Arts as the National Folk Festival, an event that moved to various cities every two or three years.

I didn’t  go to the first one, since I was working on a food story on a local banker who was a gourmet cook. I can’t remember the banker’s name, but I recall doing the interview at his house, as he cooked seafood for a pasta sauce and we briefly discussed the festival taking place downtown. Little else.

Some talk in the newsroom the following Monday, but little else. The next year, the Globe picked up on the Festival and visitors to Lowell were spotted toting copies of the Globe Calendar section around, using it as their guide. That created a firestorm in the newsroom, and the following year, we did our own guide, with lots of laboring over cover art, schedules, maps and menus.

I somehow inherited the crafter profiles, something I’ve done for years. Most years, I didn’t cover the fest, just came and soaked up the ambiance, music and food. Got to know a lot of the food folk, too, since we’d always do a story the Wednesday before that concentrated on one of the groups, their recipes and the hard work that went in to getting it all together.

A few memories stand out. One year, early on, I volunteered as a musician escort – that meant I was the person assigned to herd my assigned musician to his appointed stages on Friday night and Saturday, when he was performing. I shelled out more of my own money for orange popsicles for the guy. But the topper came when he asked if I could find him a little female companionship for the night. I didn’t realize the title “musician escort” meant finding him an escort and wasn’t about to head to Appleton or Middlesex Street to locate a girl for him. End of that job, thanks very much.

Another highlight was always the high-stepping parade with former LNHP superintendant George Price at the helm. Loved the excitement he always generated with his trademark umbrella.

Other highlights: Audrey Ambrosino’s wedding to Gregg Lamping a few years ago the night before the Festival started, with the venerable Joe Wilson serving as clergy; the fun-filled opening night party, hosted by Mike Kuenzler, that’s become one of the most coveted tickets in town and always serves as a great spot to hob-nob and catch up with folks, and the food, of course, that glorious food.

Glad the whole downtown now embraces the Folk Festival, with activities on every street corner, sales at the shops and the bars throbbing with their own musical energy.

Last year was my last year as a Sun staffer covering the festival. I retired a week later. But they asked me to write the crafter profiles again this year in the Steppin’ Out special section, coming out on Thursday and serving as the definitive guide to the festival. And I’ll be back again, covering Friday night’s opening for the paper – hope the heat, humidity and rain hold off this year.

It will be fun to see people, especially Audrey Ambrosino and Gregg Lamping. They’ll join Jack Baldwin and me on Thursday at 11:15 on WCAP-AM to reminisce about past Fests and what this one holds.

And it will be great, once more, to celebrate the Lowell Folk Festival with  the folk of Lowell. Hope it goes on for another 25 years and 125 years after that…

I’m in a funk and I don’t know why.

After all, it’s summer and there’s beauty all around me – gorgeous gardens; warm, sunny days; time spent with loved ones enjoying relaxing activities with little to worry or care about; silly movies, lobster rolls and ice cream; beaches, sand castles,   picnics, festivals, fireworks and more.

But I still have a sense of foreboding, and it usually hits me around mid-July, half way between Memorial Day and Labor Day, when summer clothes go on clearance, stores start advertising early back-to-school sales and the days get noticeably shorter each sunrise and sunset.

I love summer and all that it offers. And I felt so invigorated on its first day in June as I savored all of its promise. But the promise turns at times to disappointment, frustration, even fear and anger during these so-called idyllic days. Trouble can lurk around the corner, bees sting, knees get scraped, mosquitoes bite. Ouch!

So what’t the cure to my midsummer malaise? Trying to look on the bright side of life by keeping busy, weeding the garden, writing a story, venting to friends. All this helps and makes me realize that, while it’s mid-July and summer’s now entering its second half  and racing towards the finish, good days still lie ahead before we face autumn’s brilliant colors and falling leaves and winter’s snow, cold and ice.

And, while I don’t want to wish my life away, I know that looking ahead, six months from now, it will be January, the days will get longer, spring catalogues will be in the mail and I will again have the promise of summer approaching in the future, instead of looking it squarely and watching it disappear before my eyes.

Anyone lucky enough to be blessed with grandkids – hereafter called the  Grands – knows there’s nothing quite like it.

You’ve had your kids and now you get to enjoy their kids without the hassles of clothing, feeding and educating them – unless you choose to help out on your terms.

It’s great to cuddle them, read to them, play with them and babysit them, when you get a chance. But hands-down, the best part of being a grandparent is enjoying your offspring’s offspring one-on-one.

When it’s just you and a Grand, it’s often magic, especially since there’s no sibling rivalry, jealousy or guilt that often accompanies group sessions with the Grands.

Today, I had a great one-on-one with my youngest Grand, Claire, adorable and chatty at three years and three months. It was a day for Claire, Grammy and Pa, since the rest of the family was off to the Red Sox to watch Grampy Matthews throw out the first pitch at venerable Fenway Park.

 Claire loved the idea of taking off with me when I picked her up bright and early.  Her bag was packed, and we were off to the Acton Farmers Market first for fresh veggies and crafts at the amiable place.

She held my hand and looked around, smiling and saying hi to people. She loved the craft area, making two cut-out ladybugs from construction paper and glue. Then we picked green beans and zucchini for dinner and headed on home to show Pa our treasures.

Teatime followed in front of the TV as we watched the Red Sox start their fourth, and final, onslaught of the Orioles at Fenway. No sign of Grampy, but Claire cheered nonetheless, sipping water “tea”  laced with sugar and enjoying the scene.

We then packed a picnic and head to NARA Park for a swim. Hot and steamy on a warm July day, it was fun nonetheless to dig in the sand and reconnect with Vin Wallack, an Acton friend, who shared her umbrella to ward off the sun.

Home again, snacks, watercolor painting on the front lawn, seeing Dad on TV next to the Orioles bullpen, a tubby and, finally, eight hours later, John, Heather, Jack and Molly were back with tales of being out on the field, meeting Wally, the Green Monster mascot, facepainting, free food and a couple of game balls for Jack.

But Claire showed off her ladybugs and said she’d had fun, even though she may have been a bit jealous that she missed the game after seeing the pictures.

But for Grammy, at least, it was another not-to-be-forgotten day with a Grand. Sweet, memorable, with lots to savor and recall as they get older and decide it’s no lonfwe cool to hang out with Grammy after all….

How do you describe perfection? Is it a lovely flower? A delicious meal? An inviting scene? A memorable occasion? The people you know, love and care about?

It was all of that – and more – to me Wednesday as I experienced an absolutely perfect June day.

It started early on my way to Ayer, catching up with my friend Joanne on the phone, sharing stories and tidbits of our lives. Then, at my kids’ house, handsome grandson Jack greeted me with painted hair – red and blue – for crazy hair day at his lacrosse camp.

Piling in to the car,  Heather, Molly, Claire and I traipsed to Westford for Molly’s second day of junior camp, run by the delightfully creative and inventive Emily Piper of Rumphius Creativity Unhinged. We pulled into the lovely preserved farm on Gould Road  just in time for Molly to get started with her new friends in camp.

“This is so cute,” Heather said. I agreed and knew she would love what Emily had done to the space, turning shabby chic into warm and inviting for her young charges.

We left Molly with her campmates and headed to Dunkin’ Donuts for a little caffeine and conversation. There, Claire met up with a lovely French Canadian woman who took to her and shared her little dog Mittens with her for a little canine bonding.

Back at camp, Molly and her cohorts all got to ride the sweetest, most docile steed around the riding ring twice. Then the nice barn folks let Claire board the horse, too, even though she wasn’t an official camper. She looked so big and self-assured up there, holding the reins, her little legs straddling the horse’s back. It almost made you forget she’s only three.

Then I got to bounce an adorable, seven-month-old, all cute, chubby and smiling, on my lap.

After camp, driving Molly home, seeing the wind sift through her hair as she sat with the window open, grasping summer in all its glory and spying a deer off in a distant field.

Back home in Acton,  it was time for a memorable afternoon visit with a delightful woman who is sharing her memoir-writing tips with me for a story I will write later this month for a special section of the Globe. We sat in her lush, green backyard, swapped stories of growing up and remembered the good old days. I felt like I’d made a new friend, and maybe I have.

Then more outdoor perfection finishing up my front garden. Digging in the dirt and seeing it grow  banishes my cold memories of its barren winter look. Still needs a few more blooms to fill out the plot and give it more color. I’ll take care of that this week. But the eggplant is growing, the tomatoes, too. Fresh produce for parmesan and caprese salad in August, I hope.

Back out to Ayer for dinner, a delicious salad, burgers and dogs from the grill and  seeing the kids and their friends Charlie and Caroline troop in from the circus in Pepperell, faces painted and hearts and minds filled with the excitement of riding elephants, fire-eating men (no, kids, don’t try it!) and creating a circus of their own.

Then home to spill out my feelings in emails and notes to family and friends. And falling into bed, exhausted, but happy, with a breeze wafting through the window, just cool enough for a cover, but not so cold to make you shut the window on this luscious June night.

Simple stuff, sure. But perfect, nonetheless. As Morrie Swartz explained to Mitch Albom in Tuesdays with Morrie, the perfect day is just these things: doing things and being with the people you know and love.

It was a day to remember, and in a word – perfect.

Suzz Cromwell visited my Film, Video and Society class yesterday at Middlesex Community College to share info on the Lowell Film Collaborative and upcoming Lowell Film Festival, with its Civil War theme.

But she also brought in Rich Garella, producer of the documentary Who Killed Chea Vichea?, which the Lowell Film Collaborative was screening that night at the National Park Visitors Center.

The film is about the assassination of Chea Vichea, who was Cambodia’s most prominent, respected labor leader, and director Bradley Cox’s five-year-effort to unmask the forces behind the murder that sent fear through this country.

Garella shared his experiences as a producer with my students, who were full of questions and clearly fascinated and moved by the clips of the film that he showed. It opened their eyes to another culture and what is happening there. It also elicited their sympathies and made them realize quite vividly what horrors still exist in Cambodia. I had shared some this with them in discussions last week, but this film made it so much more real to them.

Kudos to Garella and Cox for their efforts, which will be shown across the country on PBS stations in May. And thanks to Suzz and Brett Cromwell for their efforts to bring such films to audiences here, at no cost to viewers.

The Lowell Film Collaborative is another institution that adds luster to the city’s shine.

I can’t wait to hear what Linda Greenlaw has to say when she visits the Pollard Memorial Library next Thursday – that’s the 28th – to share her life story at the annual benefit for library programs hosted by the library’s friends and foundation.

Chatting with Greenlaw a couple of weeks ago, for a story running on the cover of The Sun’s Steppin’ Out tomorrow – that’s the 21st – was a dream come true for me.

My husband and I are big Greenlaw fans and have all her books on our shelves. We were first introduced to her, as was the rest of the world, in Sebastian Junger’s The Perfect Storm, which sheds light on the infamous 1991 maelstrom along the East Coast that took the lives of all on board the Andrea Gale, sister ship to the Hannah Boden, which Greenlaw skippered.

What’s amazing about her is that she stands no taller than 5-foot 2-inches, yet has gained fame and fortune as the only female swordboat skipper in the U.S.

But thanks to Junger’s praise on that account – he called her “the best captain on the East Coast, period” in his book – Greenlaw was tapped by publishers to tell her story. Eleven years later, she’s become an acclaimed writer and publishing success story with numerous books under her belt and more on the way. That’s all the better for us, her fans.

I particularly like The Lobster Chronicles,  which details her return to Isle au Haut, the family’s Maine island home, and her foray into lobstering after years on the high seas. Like Greenlaw, it’s witty, feisty and a bit salty. She’s also done a fine job on the cookbook Recipes from a Very Small Island, which she co-authored with her equally feisty mom, Martha, a noteworthy cook.

She promises that her talk will be light-hearted and casual, and she’s eager to answer questions. So bring them on.

I’ll be there, six books in hand for her to sign. It’s $40 at the door and includes a reception. It all starts at 6 p.m.

Check out my story in tomorrow’s Sun on the cover of Steppin’ Out for more on Linda Greenlaw.

“A vaudeville” is the subtitle of playwright Seth Rozin’s  bittersweet comedy Two Jews Walk Into A War, now playing through April 10 at the Merrimack Repertory Theatre in Lowell.

And that is indeed what it seems on the surface as Will LeBow and Jerry Kissel, both master comedic actors, cavort on stage. At times it’s like the best comic banter of, say,  a Bud Abbott and Lou Costello or Alan King and Billy Crystal, or any of the other borscht belt comics who make people laugh with their perfectly-timed, perfectly targeted one-liners.

In fact, I felt like going “ba-da-bing” as Kissel or LeBow uttered the punch line and the lights and bombs bursting offstage kept time to the joke.

But there’s more to Two Jews than just silly set-ups and  funny lines. This is a story that is  based on the truth. It’s about the last two Jews remaining in Kabul, Afghanistan and their determined efforts to keep their temple afloat even as the bombs burst in the air about them.

But the punch line here is that these two guys,  Zeblyan, perfectly played by Kissel, and Ishaq, played to equal perfection by LeBow can’t stand each other’s guts. There were really two Jews left in Afghanistan that inspired this story and Rozin took the concept and ran, making a funny, telling, yet poignant play about them.

The premise revolves around their determination to re-create the Torah, the five books of Moses that is central to the Jewish religion, and then, hopefully, repopulate their congregation so it becomes strong again.

Zeblyan does the writing on a blood-stained scroll (not exactly kosher, but God makes exceptions in dire situations, they figure) and Ishaq does the dictating. Their snappy discussions on the stringent rules of Judaisim set down in Leviticus is  worth the price of admission and keeps the banter moving along rapidly in the 90-minute, one-act production.

But, along with the comedy, there’s a tender heart to Two Jews as well, one that anyone, Jewish or not, can relate to. It’s about the importance, no necessity, of working together, even with the enemy, and about the resiliance of the human spirit in times of peace and times of peril.

Two Jews Walk Into A War will make you laugh, for sure, but it will also make you thing – and that is what good theater is all about.

Through April 10. Visit www.merrimackrep.org for tickets.

It’s said that deaths come in threes and, once again, the old adage holds true, as three remarkable people I’ve had the chance to interview and write about have passed away within the course of several days. 

The first is Jon Lipsky, a remarkably talented Boston playwright, teacher and director, who died of cancer over the weekend in his Martha’s Vineyard home. I knew Lipsky in the early 1990s, when David Kent named him playwright-in-residence at the Merrimack Repertory Theatre, and Lipsky worked his magic on stage there, creating what Kent called his Lowell Trilogy of plays. The first was Maggie’s Riff, a play about Jack Kerouac and based on Kerouac’s Maggie Cassidy. I recall David Zoffoli portraying Kerouac in a captivating performance that paid tribute to Lowell’s legendary writer. But the Lipsky work that completely moved and mesmerized me was Survivor: A Cambodian Odyssey, a taunting, terrifying, terrific play that captured the essence of the experiences so many of Lowell’s new Cambodian residents had endured. It was a magnficent piece of theater and went on to national acclaim, since it was selected to be a party of the Humana Festival of New American Plays at the Actors Theatre of Louisville, a great recognition for any work. I also enjoyed Lipsky’s work at the Museum of Science, where he made a somewhat dry, non-theatrical-seeming topic – Albert Einstein and his theory of relativity – come to life for a non-scientist like me. He was always accessible, friendly and smarter than anyone in the room.

Sandy Walters’ death is the second in recent days and one I only learned about through a posting Paul Marion made today on the dickhowe.com blog. Walters, of course, was one of the early superintendents of the Lowell National Historical Park, here when the park was taking off and establishing institutions as the Tsongas Industrial History Center and the Lowell Folk Festival. I remember Walters as a fun-loving, approachable and dedicated to making the LNHP a stand-out in urban parks. One strong memory stands out of her performing a comic act with then Congressman Chet Atkins at a fundraiser for the Merrimack Repertory Theatre. Indeed, those were heady, fun days in Lowell.

The third death is Elizabeth Taylor, Hollywood icon, actress and humanitarian. La Liz came to Boston in the late 1980s, to promote her fragrance, Liz Taylor’s White Diamonds, a perfume named after her remarkable jewelry collection, with all profits going towards AIDs research. Liz arrived at Jordan Marsh, an entourage in tow. She was still gorgeous, with that remarkably creamy skin, violet eyes and sense of fun when she talked. Those were the days when The Sun sent me in to cover all the celebs showing up in the Hub, and, thanks to my Jordan Marsh publicist friend Lois Frankenberger, I got close access to Ms. Taylor, who wowed me and the rest of the press entourage with her wit, charm and commitment to her cause.  Her acting was memorable, so, too was her life, despite its scandals and tragedies. 

These three people each made an impact on me with their talent, commitment and lives well-lived. All fine examples of making the most of life and giving back. I’m honored to have known them, even for a brief moment, and to have had a chance to write about them and share their stories with readers. May they rest in peace.